


Sunspots

by antumbral



Series: NIN Trilogy [3]
Category: Ouran High School Host Club - All Media Types
Genre: 69 (Sex Position), Established Relationship, M/M, Morning Sex, Negotiations, soft slow and easy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-14
Updated: 2013-06-14
Packaged: 2017-12-14 23:21:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/842600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/antumbral/pseuds/antumbral
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tamaki wakes to early light streaming through the windows and the damp of Kyouya’s mouth against his shoulder.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sunspots

_my life, it seems, has taken a turn_  
 _why in the name of God would I ever want to return?_  
 _peel off our skin, we're gonna burn what we were to the ground_  
 _fuck in the fire, and we'll spread all the ashes around_  
 _\- Nine Inch Nails, Sunspots_  
  
  


Kyouya talks in his sleep.  


Tamaki wakes to early light streaming through the windows and the damp of Kyouya’s mouth against his shoulder, mumbling softly about ootoro. Once he knows what’s woken him, he relaxes, lays his head back and closes his eyes, not to rest, but to take stock of himself.  


He’s not sore, not exactly, but certain muscles feel out-of-sorts with unaccustomed use. His hips, strangely, most of all; joints not used to the abuse of stretch and flex from the night before. Kyouya mumbles again and snuffles, burying his nose beneath Tamaki’s arm and mashing his face into the sheets.  


Tamaki isn’t good at lazy mornings, and now that he’s awake there’s no finding sleep again. He extricates himself gingerly from Kyouya’s hold and heads for the bathroom, not bothering to put on pants. There’s no one but Kyouya in the house, and Kyouya is dead to the world for a while yet. He avoids his reflection in the wide mirrors while pissing, but stares as he washes his hands.  


He doesn’t look that different, considering. His reflection sports mussed blond hair, sleepy eyes, and a dark, strawberry-colored mark over one collarbone. If he looks closely enough, he imagines that he can see teeth marks, and fingers the spot curiously with wet hands after washing his face. His mouth feels like a small but pungent animal crawled into it to die, so he brushes his teeth too, puffing out his cheeks like a chipmunk as he rinses.  


When he’s taken as much time as he reasonably can in the bathroom, he pads back out to Kyouya’s room. Kyouya lies on his stomach, the sheet pooled down around his hips, exposing his back. He’s thrown one hand over his face in his sleep, as though hiding from the light, and Tamaki smiles fondly at the sight. After a moment, he crosses to the bed and lays back down, careful not to wake Kyouya.  


As Tamaki settles back in, they wind up pressed against each other -- Kyouya on his stomach, Tamaki propped on his side so that he can watch -- and Tamaki resolutely doesn’t think the word _queer_. There’s nothing queer about wanting Kyouya, it feels like a natural progression of their friendship. He tests himself, tries to think of other men with the same kind of desire -- Twins? No. Chemistry teacher? No. Mori? No. -- and feels an ill-defined sense of reassurance when he finds himself unattracted. Kyouya has always been an exception to the normal way of things, queer perhaps in the sense of strange. He is a third son who bought out the family business, a tactical thinker who enjoys the frivolities of Host Club, a friend to Tamaki. Tamaki finds himself content to classify this as yet another rule that Kyouya defies, and not worry overmuch about his own sexuality.  


The sun peeks finally over the horizon and floods in through the skylights of the room. When Tamaki looks straight up, the glare against the glass is enough to white out his vision completely. Tamaki looks back down at Kyouya, asleep. The bars of the skylight cast shadows against the pale, pale skin of his back. Tamaki occupies himself by playing counting games: he counts the number of lumps that make up Kyouya’s spine (fifteen) and the number of ribs that he can see on each side (six on the left side, seven on the right). Counting only lasts so long, though, and he is still naked in bed with an equally naked and still sleeping Kyouya. Tamaki droops his head to bare his neck to the sun and concentrate on the feel of light against his skin. His breathing grows shallow and steady as the sun warms him, makes his hair feel hot and comfortable. He imagines Kyouya’s skin like this, soft and sun-hot, then realizes that he doesn’t have to imagine; Kyouya is right there in front of him.  


Tamaki leans over carefully, not really wanting to wake Kyouya -- not yet -- and presses his lips feather light to Kyouya’s spine, between his shoulders. Kyouya murmurs and settles deeper into the sheets, twitching faintly. Tamaki takes this as tacit permission to continue, and licks out delicately to taste. Kyouya’s skin is faintly earthy, a little salty, and very smooth. Tamaki kisses downward, exploring with his lips, stopping below the wings of Kyouya’s shoulder blades to just exhale, run his nose softly up and down the fine hairs there. It’s not even really touching, just existing a space of millimeters apart. It makes him feel unreasonably possessive of Kyouya’s body, that he should be allowed such liberties.  


Kyouya wakes when Tamaki kisses him just below where his last ribs join his spine. Tamaki can feel the change in suddenly tense muscles, in the soft hitch of breathing when Tamaki presses a hot, open-mouthed kiss against the small of his back. Kyouya makes a low grumbling sound and arches a little into Tamaki’s mouth, so Tamaki kisses him more there, nuzzling into the indentations just above his hips.  


“Turn over,” Tamaki says quietly. Kyouya obeys, rolling to his back and blinking blearily at Tamaki, scrubbing at his eyes with his fists.  


“G’ morning,” Kyouya mumbles and yawns, as though pronouncing words is still too much effort. Tamaki shifts back up the bed to hover above him.  


“Good morning.” His mouth is just above Kyouya’s anyway, so it makes complete sense to kiss him. Kyouya tastes like sleep and just a little sour. He wrinkles his nose as Tamaki pulls away.  


“You brushed your teeth.” It’s as accusing as someone who’s still mostly asleep can be.  


“Yeah,” Tamaki says, and kisses Kyouya again. He likes kissing Kyouya. He likes how soft and un-urgent and melted Kyouya is in the mornings. Kyouya’s hipbones are a little sharp, but the sun is warm and drowsy on his back, and Tamaki could keep kissing Kyouya for a very long time.  


Between kisses, Kyouya sniffs as though offended. “Now I have to go brush my teeth too.”  


He rolls out of bed, reaches for his glasses, and narrowly avoids the doorpost on his way to the bathroom. Tamaki flops back and watches him. There’s a warm spot in the sheets where Kyouya had been. Tamaki sprawls out, makes himself wide to take as much advantage of the warmth as he can.  


Sounds of running water emerge from the bathroom, then Kyouya pads back into the room. It’s a little strange to see him so matter-of-factly naked, but Tamaki thinks he might like it. It’s like being given access to something he didn’t even know existed, a free pass to Kyouya at his least guarded. The immediate acceptance makes Tamaki wonder just how long Kyouya has wanted this, that he should be so prepared to let Tamaki completely past his defenses.  


Kyouya moves to the windows to fuss with the drapes, and Tamaki has the sudden realization that there’s another thing Kyouya is letting him see: Kyouya is probably queer. At the least of it, he’s slept with another man often enough to learn and be good at it, and now there’s Tamaki.  


Tamaki isn’t sure how he feels about this, but naked in Kyouya’s bed is not a good place from which to cast stones, so he turns it over in his head and allows the idea to become comfortable, second-nature. It doesn’t even take a space of seconds, which probably says something about him, or about his relationship with Kyouya before. This too is a part of himself that Kyouya doesn’t let the world see. His father cannot know, or his brothers. There are so many people who would take advantage, use Kyouya’s feelings to their own ends, but Tamaki is pretty sure now that Kyouya has been trusting him with this for a while.  


Tamaki is a good choice if Kyouya wishes to conceal himself: they can appear as friends, as business partners, as potential rivals and can spend as much time as they like together without being obvious. Their mutual position as potential heirs to industrial empires will protect them. This is why Kyouya has been so concerned with securing Tamaki’s inheritance; by securing the Suou company for Tamaki, he has in some ways been securing Tamaki for himself. Tamaki can feel yet another aspect of the past few weeks settle into place with an almost audible click.  


Kyouya flops back down on the bed and pushes Tamaki out of the warm spot so he can curl back up. He ends up on his back, and Tamaki sees no good reason not to kiss him some more. This is so slow, so soft and exploratory -- finding the shapes of each other, of this thing between them. Kyouya tastes like mint now, and Tamaki finds he sort of misses the deeper taste of Kyouya himself under all the toothpaste. He licks Kyouya’s lips, tugs softly with his teeth, rubs his own mouth over Kyouya’s at every conceivable angle. They kiss for what feels like hours, and Tamaki’s lips become so sensitive that he feels even the slightest brush in his spine. Kyouya breathes into his mouth from a finger’s width away.  


“You look like you only have one eye,” Kyouya says.  


From so close together, perspective plays tricks. The sun glints painfully off Kyouya’s glasses.  


“You look like you don’t have a nose,” says Tamaki. “Or a mouth. It would be tragic for you to lose your mouth. How would you chew on pen caps?”  


“Or, you know, eating,” says Kyouya dryly. He props himself up on his elbows to kiss Tamaki shyly. Tamaki wonders again how often Kyouya has woken up with someone and allowed them to stay. It occurs to him that Kyouya has been waking up to Tamaki for weeks, ever since Tamaki moved to the futon on the floor of his room.  


Kyouya lays back, all dark and sleepy eyes, and runs his thumb down the center of Tamaki’s lips. It catches a little on the lower one, and Tamaki can feel the shape of his fingerprint, his lips so sensitive from kissing. It feels good, and he wraps his hand around Kyouya’s wrist to keep his fingers there, resting against Tamaki’s mouth. It’s natural to let his eyes drift closed with the sleepy weight of the sun, open his mouth and set his teeth against Kyouya’s thumb, then lick out and curl his tongue around to soothe the non-hurt. Kyouya’s breath catches in his throat, and Tamaki presses a kiss into the center of Kyouya’s palm before guiding the hand to Kyouya’s own jaw, down, so that Kyouya’s thumb leaves a damp trail down his throat and sternum. Tamaki follows that path with his mouth, exploring by touch again. Kyouya holds in a lungful or air, then lets it out in a rush before inhaling and holding again, as though he’s forgotten the proper sequence for breath.  


Tamaki kisses down over the ribs on Kyouya’s side to his waist, where it turns out that Kyouya is ticklish and squirms away from the wet puffs of breath. Tamaki snickers. It’s something to explore, possibly exploit later, but there’s a mood between them that Tamaki doesn’t want to disturb, a small bubble of space and warmth that’s just them. He doesn’t want to ruin something so slow and private, so he moves away from the spot, down to the knobs of Kyouya’s hipbones. Kyouya smells different here, more like the smell that Tamaki associates with his own sweat, and he nuzzles the fine blue lines that run across bone: blue veins showing through thin skin.  


Kyouya is no longer anywhere near sleep; his whole body feels strung up and tense with waiting. He doesn’t make any noise, though, no demands, so Tamaki avoids the idea of cocks for a little longer. Instead he shifts a little closer to Kyouya and nips at the edge of his belly button, then lays his head against Kyouya’s hip, pillowing it just below the jut of bone.  


Kyouya breathes. Tamaki tries not to fidget. The silence between them builds and builds, until it’s something huge and awkward in the room. Tamaki doesn’t move, because he feels the only thing he could do would be pull away, and then he knows instinctively he’d never get Kyouya back.  


“I feel like I should put on pants or something,” Tamaki ventures finally. He glances up Kyouya’s body and wrinkles his nose apologetically.  


Kyouya studies him for a moment, then laughs. It’s not precisely a happy sound. He ruffles Tamaki’s hair familiarly. “You twitch when you’re asleep,” Kyouya says, almost musing to himself. “Sometimes you kick. I knew that two years ago, though. Since that time you slept over when your room was being fumigated at Suou.”  


Tamaki is sure that Kyouya has a point, but has no idea what it might be. He stares up and blinks twice. Kyouya tilts his head and lays a finger very gently over his lips.  


“I know that two and a half years ago you didn’t know how to breathe through your nose when you kissed someone. You nearly suffocated holding your breath that time with Satou Misa. You didn’t learn until Osakawa Reiko showed you, the night of her father’s re-election party.”  


“I’d never kissed _you_ before last night,” Tamaki says, completely open.  


“I’d never offered an IPO until last week,” Kyouya says factually. In any other conversation it would be a non-sequitur, but Tamaki finally gets the point. Everything changes, but that doesn’t make what’s between them entirely new.  


“I don’t know what I’m doing,” Tamaki confesses. It scares him a little, the idea of being new to this. Kyouya’s fingers scratch lightly through his hair, obscurely comforting.  


“I have every confidence in your ability to improvise,” Kyouya says.  


Tamaki narrows his eyes in Kyouya’s direction, then darts up and blows a loud raspberry against Kyouya’s belly. Kyouya flails and emits a rather unmanly shriek. It breaks the tension between them like light through a thundercloud, and suddenly it’s just them again, uncomplicated as always. Kyouya’s struggles end abruptly in a strangled gasp when Tamaki licks a stripe up against the underside of his cock, quickly so that he can’t change his mind or get nervous again.  


Above him Kyouya stills, wide-eyed and panting from his squirming, glasses askew on his nose. Tamaki repeats the motion, more deliberately this time, tantalizing instead of surprising. Kyouya tastes sort of like ocean water, like the sea resting too long under a blinding sun. He’s not too sure what he’s doing, but Kyouya has gone motionless beneath him and quivers every time Tamaki touches him, so he figures he must be doing something right even if he’s inexperienced.  


He voices that thought. “I’ve never done this before either.” Kyouya pushes his glasses up his nose and reaches out reverently to rest his fingertips against Tamaki’s neck.  


“I’ll show you,” he says, barely more than a whisper.  


And he does. Appreciative noises and very gentle guidance from his hands show Tamaki where Kyouya likes to be licked, what feels good and what’s too much pressure. He learns how to curl his tongue and whispers apologies when Kyouya flinches at an accidental graze of teeth.  


Eventually Tamaki rather gets the hang of it, closes his eyes and learns to float into a rhythm like waves -- warm sun on his back, cool sheets beneath him, Kyouya’s smell and quiet noises all around him. It takes a while -- long moments of exploration, then even longer moments of teasing as he learns what Kyouya likes -- but he can feel Kyouya’s body tense beneath him, hear his gasps go subtly higher in pitch. Kyouya bucks his hips up slightly, then abruptly pushes Tamaki away.  


“Wait,” he says,” wait _wait_ \--"  


Tamaki glares up at him, startled and a little resentful, but for the moment Kyouya is ignoring him. Instead Kyouya wiggles down beside him, then pokes and prods until their positions are rearranged -- until they lie side-by-side, facing each other with their heads pointed in opposite directions.  


“Like this,” Kyouya says, and leans forward.  


He pushes an arm under Tamaki’s leg, resting his head on Tamaki’s inner thigh, and takes Tamaki’s cock into his mouth to suck softly. Tamaki closes his eyes and can’t do anything but react for a minute. Every other faculty in his body has shut down. It feels _incredible_ , it feels like he always imagined an epiphany would feel if it happened in his body instead of in his brain, and he understands with crushing force why Kyouya had sometimes sounded like he couldn’t get air earlier. Air isn’t important any more, not when Kyouya’s mouth is hot and wet and delicious around him. It’s not until Kyouya moves beside him, pressing his hips up impatiently in Tamaki’s direction, that he remembers what he was doing earlier.  


When he puts his mouth back on Kyouya’s cock, something clicks between them. It’s like they’ve finished a loop, thrown some sort of circuit switch, yin and yang, ebb and flow. Tamaki uses his mouth to suggest to Kyouya what he likes, and Kyouya imitates, evolves, builds the pleasure between them until Tamaki feels lightheaded and dazzled.  


“Wait,” says Kyouya, “My arm is going to sleep.” He pulls away briefly and shuffles around a little, making himself more comfortable, then settles back in.  


Tamaki gradually becomes more accustomed to the sensation of being sucked, so that it’s more a wash of pleasure than the feeling that his brain is going to go supernova at any second. He learns to use his hands to keep from overshooting his own gag reflex, learns that it feels really fucking good when Kyouya makes noises around his cock, and attempts valiantly to remember to reciprocate. Sucking Kyouya like this and being sucked, it’s good; it’s lazy and sweet and long and soft and desperately, desperately hot.  


Eventually he can feel orgasm shimmering in his spine and he pulls back to gasp, “Kyouya --"  


“It’s okay,” Kyouya says, and swipes his tongue gently across the slit of Tamaki’s cock, which almost brings Tamaki then and there, too sensitive and wired nuclear into every pleasure center he’s got. “It’s okay. I want to watch you.”  


A few gentle strokes of his hand is all it takes and Tamaki comes -- slow, toe-curling orgasm, teeth hard into his lower lip. Kyouya’s eyes are dark and huge, and when Tamaki regains enough of his brain to squeeze a hand tight around him, he chokes out a breathless laugh, buries his face against Tamaki’s thigh, and comes. Tamaki can feel his muscles quiver with it, and after a moment, Kyouya bites softly into Tamaki’s thigh, nuzzling an affectionate caress.  


“I didn’t know if it was polite to swallow.” Sometimes Tamaki’s brain talks without his permission.  


“Well, this way we don’t have to brush our teeth again,” Kyouya replies, giving him an odd look. He reaches for the washcloth from last night, discarded carelessly on the bedside table, and wipes his hands. He hands it to Tamaki, who does likewise and replaces it to the table. Kyouya turns around on the bed so that they’re once more facing each other in the same direction, faces watching across the pillow.  


Tamaki yawns involuntarily. “Is it bad that I want a nap at this hour of the morning?”  


Kyouya laughs again and rests a hand casually on Tamaki’s outstretched bicep. Tamaki curls his hand around Kyouya’s wrist, feeling smug and sated.  


“Go to sleep,” Kyouya says fondly.  


When Tamaki wakes again, Kyouya has clearly gotten up at least once from the bed. He’s seated crosslegged in the curve of Tamaki’s body. He’s wearing a pair of loose cotton pants, and he’s got a large cup of coffee in one hand and his laptop on his legs.  


Kyouya glances over and notices that Tamaki is watching. “Tokyo opened up this morning, but London opened down,” he says. “The drop should hit us by midday, once the Russians figure out their grain exports are going to tank. They’re taking their own sweet time about that one, though.”  


For a moment Tamaki wonders if Kyouya is speaking a foreign language, then his brain catches up with the program and he figures instead that this is Kyouya’s version of an endearment. It’s delightfully normal, listening to Kyouya talk about the stock markets in the morning. It makes him think that maybe things won’t change as much as he’d thought between them.  


“Would you object to spending the next two days in bed while the markets settle themselves out?” Kyouya asks, and slants a shrewd gaze in Tamaki’s direction.  


Tamaki pretends to consider the question for a moment. “Only if you promise not to desert me when Ootori Industries starts trading on the open market,” he finally replies.  


Kyouya gives him a shark’s smile, immensely pleased with Tamaki and with himself.  


“I think we can negotiate,” he says.  


Then again, maybe some things will change. Tamaki thinks he could handle that too.  



End file.
